by A P Bateman
King looked at the Iman and asked, “Why was it old news?”
“What?” Al-Shaqqaf looked bemused.
“The warhead going off in London. Why was it old news?”
The Iman fiddled with the laptop and the screen behind turned to woodland, a clearing on a dry, but cloudy autumnal day. “Yes, that’s quite fitting,” he said of the film. “We worked out where to do more damage, that’s all.”
“Can’t damage a nation more than hitting its capital.”
“We don’t want to damage the nation! This is my nation as well!” He felt the edge of the blade with his thumb, then walked over and stood in front of them. “We will strike at the heart of the intelligence community. At their ability to thwart our brothers’ best efforts in the east.”
King frowned, but it was too late. Iman Mullah Al-Shaqqaf pulled on a balaclava mask and gripped the knife tightly and walked around behind them.
King glanced at Rashid. Their eyes met. Both were scared, but still determined.
“This is what enemies of Islam can grow to expect,” Al-Shaqqaf announced loudly and clearly for the benefit of the camera. “We see our Muslim brothers persecuted daily. Bombed by the west. Refused asylum by countries dedicated to eradicating Islam and westernising our brothers and sisters, our sons and daughters and eroding standards and values long fought for by our ancestors to keep. From the crusades England waged upon our faith a thousand years ago, to the frequent bombing of Syria and Iraq today, the west has fought in vain to marginalise us, to defeat our will and our faith.” He brought the knife around in front of King and caught hold of the tuft of hair on his forehead, pulling his head backwards and exposing his throat. “And like my esteemed Muslim brothers before me…”
King powered upwards, driving through his powerful legs and smashed the back of his head under the Iman’s jaw. He grabbed the man’s balls with his bound hands and wrenched them savagely, twisting left and right, up and down with all of his strength. Al-Shaqqaf screamed and dropped the knife and King pushed backwards, barrelling the man into the screen smashing the glass and turning the image to blue and green liquid and a distorted and flickering woodland image. He turned and head-butted the nearest guard, but the second guard was already on him. Great bear arms hugged him close. King smashed his head backwards. There was a bone-crunching snap and he kept going, two, three, four times. The bear hug weakened and the man started to sag. The guard had the shotgun up and was trying to find a target, but if he fired at that range he’d hit everyone in front of the screen, and he knew it. King saw the man’s quandary, and as the man started forwards King kicked the table and the cameras and laptop toppled off as the table rammed into the man’s legs and drove him backwards.
Rashid rolled out of the way. Bound and laying on the floor the smaller man ignored him and made for King. He punched King, but the blow glanced off as King ducked and bobbed and weaved. A second punch found its mark, but King lashed out with a well-aimed front kick and the man dropped forwards clutching his groin. King brought his knee up hard into the man’s face, but was pulled backwards by someone. The blow was glancing and King fought to regain balance. The first guard that he had head-butted was getting to his feet, but King took an unskilled penalty shoot-out style kick and connected under the man’s chin. He was either unconscious or dead before he hit the ground. The shotgun was getting nearer. Al-Shaqqaf was getting back to his feet, his face a mess and the balaclava had ridden up on his head like a child’s ill-fitting bobble hat. His beard was matted with blood and mucous. He was unsteady, falling back into the screen as if he were drunk.
The man with the shotgun had recovered, had the weapon held steady and had covered the ground around the table quickly. He aimed it at King then flinched, a look of surprise on his face. A small red hole appeared in the centre of his forehead. Blood seeped out and then ran swiftly over the perspiration on his brow. He fell forwards into King then tipped sideways and lay still on the floor.
Rashid had the silenced Ruger .22 pistol aimed at Al-Shaqqaf and the remaining two men. He was sat down, his back pressed against the wall. He looked in pain, but the weapon was steady enough not to argue with. The tape was dangling from both wrists, but he had finally torn it free.
King kicked the knife over to Rashid, then walked over and turned around. Rashid aimed the pistol one-handed and sliced quickly through the cable ties around King’s wrists with the knife.
King rubbed his wrists. They were bleeding, his hands purple from the pinch. He bent down and took the Ruger off Rashid. “Well done.”
“I thought you had cut through most of the tape?”
“I did.”
Rashid shrugged. “Could have fooled me.”
“Well it had to be convincing.” He stepped forwards and levelled the pistol at Al-Shaqqaf. “Where is the uranium?”
“Fool! I’ll never tell you! Do you think you can threaten me, scare me into talking? Arrest me now. Let me tell my solicitor how you broke in here, threatened me with a weapon, shot my assistant using illegal force…”
King pulled the trigger and the Iman dropped lifelessly to the floor. There was a messy hole the size of a pound coin in the back of his head where the tiny bullet exited and both men left standing had a crimson splatter pattern on their faces. King aimed at the two unconscious men on the floor and fired a single bullet into both men’s heads. One man’s legs shot out and twitched for a moment before resting still.
He looked at the two remaining men, aimed the pistol in their direction. “I want to know where the uranium is.”
The larger man nodded, his eyes wide and full of terror. “I know! I know!” He stepped a paced forward, shielding the smaller man from view. “I loaded it onto the van, I delivered it personally, had instructions to return with…”
The blade flashed in front of him, then slashed his throat wide open. Blood sprayed out and hit both King and Rashid ten feet away. The big man fell forwards onto his knees, his hands clutching his throat. He keeled over onto his stomach and struggled on the floor, gargling loudly as he breathed nothing but blood.
The smaller man held the knife by his side. It was a classic flick knife with a four-inch-long blade. He looked at King with malevolence. King hadn’t noticed before, but the man had a thick scar which ran from his temple to the tip of his chin. “Allah Akbar!” he wailed. He held the knife out in front of him and charged towards them. “Allah Akbar!”
King shot him in the forehead and he fell forwards smashing into the table, spun around and lay still on his back. He stared blankly upwards. King picked up the knife, wiped the blood off the blade on the dead man’s collar, then folded it and put it in his pocket. He took the butcher’s knife and wiped the blade in some of the guard’s blood, then placed the handle in the smaller man’s hand and squeezed the man’s hand tightly closed. He then put the pistol in the guard’s hand and squeezed the trigger. A silenced shot thudded into the wall and King let the man’s hand go and turned to Rashid. He helped him up from the floor. He was unsteady, his dressings were seeping.
“Let’s get you back to hospital,” he said. He ripped off the robes and picked the nearest sized guard to himself. He hastily undressed the man, then dressed in his clothes and redressed the man in the set of robes. It was difficult, but he knew it would be. He had done it before.
He looked at Rashid and said, “Get undressed, I’ll get the smaller guy undressed, then you put his clothes on while I redress him in yours.”
“And the rest of the plan?” Rashid asked, struggling with his top over the stab wounds.
“Well, we were filmed entering the mosque. Our clothes will identify us. Hopefully this will confuse the hell out of the police.”
“Hopefully.”
“They’ve got a lot of bodies and a lot of blood. They have enough confusion, contradiction and assumption here to write a thesis. They’ve got something going down that went wrong. No man left standing,” King said.
“Well it will keep them
busy,” Rashid commented.
“There’s a service entrance to a yard. They keep some containers in the yard for aid work donations. Then the bastards take it out to Syria and slip off to do a bit of killing, then come back with the aid convoy. It’s a gated entrance which I’m sure ‘Box have under surveillance, but if we can get on top of one of those containers we can jump into the garden of the neighbouring house at the back. That will get us back into the street where we parked.”
“Jump?”
“Yes.”
“Fifteen feet into a garden?”
“More like eighteen. The containers are on blocks.”
“With twenty-two leaking stitches? And that’s just the stitches on the outside. I’ll take my chance with ‘Box and the police.”
“Well they’ve got to stitch you back up anyway.”
“You’re a real bastard, you know that?” Rashid laughed. “Oh, what the hell.”
King stood back and looked at the bodies on the ground. “Got your wallet, anything that could identify you?”
“Sorted.”
“Let’s go then.” King led the way up the stairs and into the foyer. He hadn’t noticed the collection of clocks and brass nautical compasses on the oak-panelled walls. The clocks had different cities written underneath them and underneath each one written in English was the Arab interpretation. The central clock was marked Mecca. King turned left and found a dining room with bench seating. The floor was parquet wooden blocks with a scripture cast in the middle using pieces of ebony. King had seen the scripture before. On ISIS flags. The service hatch in the wall ahead told him where to find the kitchen. “This way. Kitchens always have outside access.” They walked quickly and King pushed open the door. The kitchen was well-appointed and could easily cater for numbers in the hundreds. The outside door was easy to spot, there were coats, aprons and overalls hanging from pegs, indicating people arrived and got changed. The key was in the lock and King opened the door and made his way out into the yard. The containers were further down the length of the building.
Rashid was panting, clutching his side. King hooked his arm around him and together they jogged the short distance. “I can hear sirens,” Rashid said.
They stopped for a moment.
“So can I,” King said. “Quite a few. Let’s get going.”
King stood at the container and beckoned Rashid forwards. He cupped his hands together and Rashid used them like a stirrup. They counted a silent three and King heaved as Rashid pushed and the man shot upwards. He was only ten or eleven stone and was up the side of the container and easing himself on top in no time. King put his foot on the side of the container where there was a lip. It was high off the ground and took a bit of effort, but he was able to get his hands on top and pull himself up slowly. King weighed about fourteen stone and the going was slower without the added shunt, but Rashid hooked his arm under his own and helped him up as he reached the top.
“That’s a fucking long jump,” Rashid said, heaving for breath. “Four feet out and a long way down.”
The sirens were getting louder as the vehicles raced near. MI5 had made the decision ahead of seeing how it played out. Or maybe they had heard something on the parabolic microphones. Either way it looked as if they were going to be compromised shortly.
“Got to do it!” King said sharply. Rashid took a few paces back and ran at it. As he leapt King shoved him hard and he sailed off into the night. He just cleared the fence and then disappeared from view. King heard the crumple and roll and Rashid curse and cry out in pain. “How was it?” King called out.
“Just jump, I don’t want to ruin the surprise for you,” came the hushed reply.
King took a run at it and jumped. His stomach rose towards his throat and he felt the hair blow around his head as he headed towards the ground. He couldn’t see the ground and brace, but rolled as soon as he hit. The landing was hard and he got up slowly. Both men limped towards the end of the garden and the dull hue of the streetlights beyond. Rashid opened the garden gate and turned right.
“No, this way,” he said, catching Rashid’s shoulder. “That car’s a decoy. It’s been reported stolen already and I’ve left the keys in the pocket of the man’s clothes I swapped.”
“Your flashy Arabic pants?”
“Those are the ones.”
“Authentic. I’m surprised you didn’t bring a camel,” Rashid smirked.
King led the way to the end of the road where the second hire car had been delivered. “This is us,” he said.
“Nice wheels,” Rashid said.
“Well, it was on expenses,” King said. He reached around into the inside of the driver’s side front wheel arch and felt for the key fob where he had instructed the manager to leave it. King opened the door of the Jaguar F-Type and dropped down into the snug leather seat. Rashid eased himself in a little more tentatively.
“Nice expense budget,” Rashid said, looking around the dashboard and the array of switches. He looked down the long bonnet. “This car is just a giant cock,” he said. “I guess we’re the balls holding it down.”
King started the five litre supercharged V8 and gunned the throttle. The engine and exhaust note resonated around the parked cars and quiet houses, and as they sped down the road he could hear the sirens of the police vehicles arriving in front of the mosque and see the flashing blue strobes dance off the trees and reflect off the windows of the houses in the otherwise tranquil street.
68
Droznedov, or the man claiming to be Droznedov, ate from the buffet breakfast at seven o’clock. He drank black coffee and ate bread rolls, cheese and ham, ignoring the traditional cooked English breakfast buffet. He took a bottle of water from the buffet table as he left the restaurant and went back to his room. The man and the woman from MI5 posing as a couple called through on a hidden microphone. The woman reported that the target had left the dining room and that he was heading for the stairs. They had taken breakfast together since the dining room had opened, refilling their coffees and toasting their own toast and croissants on the conveyer grill and reading the complimentary newspaper at the table. They appeared unhurried, and because of the rapid turnaround of guests at breakfast they did not draw attention.
Droznedov walked past the tiny middle-aged Asian woman cleaning the glass on the stairwell. He stood aside to allow a man past. He was a curious looking man with striking features and severely parted hair. It looked like Lego hair. He seemed to look fit, but wore a cheap fleece tracksuit and dated basketball shoes. He stopped at the top of the stairs and performed a few lunges before jogging down. Droznedov walked on. The cleaner used a spray and cloth to clean away the fingerprints guests had smeared on their way down to breakfast. When Droznedov stepped out of the stairwell and onto the landing of the fifth floor she spoke into her concealed throat mic and informed the next unit that the target was heading for his room.
The hotel was a transient place by its very nature. But throughout the week business people tended to stay only one night and housekeeping were already pulling carts laden with bedding and sheets and towels into the corridor, set for a rapid turnaround in rooms to be thoroughly remade. Droznedov pushed past one such cart and swiped his door with the key card. One of the women stacking towels pressed a contact button three times in quick succession on her concealed radio. She pushed the cart on past room five-fourteen and continued to stack towels further down the corridor with her eyes on the target’s room.
The noise created by pressing the contact button three times was known as a coded burst and Caroline noted that the target was back inside his room. She looked up at Brannan as he came into the office. “The target is static. That must have been bloody close.”
“Too close by far. But I have a tracker in his overnight bag and another in the lining of his coat.” Brannan pulled the tracksuit off and started to pull on his suit trousers. “We have to get ready for him to leave. My team are in place. Your driver knows the score, doesn’t he?”
>
“He will do as I say,” Caroline said. “We let the equipment do what it does and we follow from a distance of about a mile. Never in sight. And I have called my police contact, he will be here with SOCO as soon as we leave. I just have to give him the word.”
“Excellent.” He turned around and answered his mobile which was ringing to the Mission Impossible theme tune. Caroline smiled and turned back to the log to give the man some privacy. He listened intently, paced, then cursed loudly. Caroline looked up, but he was muttering instructions quickly and urgently. He ended the call. “Sod’s law. The Hertz driver has been hit by a bus. Badly. The vehicle is a write-off. They’re sending another right away, but now we only have time to put a locator on it. It’s the same as I have secreted in his possessions, but only transmits to a maximum of three miles, weather and atmospheric conditions permitting.”
Caroline closed her eyes. Not good. She stood up and smoothed her dress down over her legs. “Will the receiver you fitted in my car still pick up?”
Brannan nodded. “We’ll make sure the locator puts out on the same frequency. But you will have to keep fairly close. If you’re at the extremity of signal and he floors it to a junction, you could sail on past and lose him. And you don’t want that, do you?”
69
The table was sturdy, made from thick pine, but even so he had reinforced it with concrete blocks purchased from a local home improvements chain store based on an out of town shopping complex. The blocks ran from the floor to the underside of the table around all four legs and in the centre. The warhead had been disassembled and the delivery system, the cone shaped warhead, had been set aside.